


Tuesday

by zetsubonna



Series: On Va Voir [7]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Actual Boyfriend vs. Fake Boyfriend, Age Regression/De-Aging, Bucky Barnes Feels, Bucky Barnes Has Issues, Gen, Hurt Bucky Barnes, Lies, bucky no, implied Bucky/Steve - Freeform, kid!steve
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-12
Updated: 2014-08-12
Packaged: 2018-02-12 20:06:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2123028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zetsubonna/pseuds/zetsubonna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Anonymous said:<br/>Um, for a fic request: I've got a soft spot for fics where Steve is somehow de-aged (not just to skinny!Steve, but like an actual child) and Bucky has to take care of him. Bonus points if he's still mostly the Winter Solider at that point, but being around younger Steve is helping a lot. Sam and Natasha are at a loss because on the one hand: world's deadliest assassin. On the other: apparently their bond can withstand even this, cause Steve's practically imprinted on the guy (and vice versa).</p><p>Anonymous said:<br/>Can there be more of the kid!Steve story, you know, whenever you get the inspiration. Or not, whatever works for you. It's just that it was adorable and lovely.</p><p>jellicle-ball said:<br/>[quietly petitions for more kid!steve and Winter Soldier shenanigans]</p><p>twistedmindstorm said:<br/>What about kid!Steve really taking courage and asking about his former self (Cap)? How would the others react? Protective? Sincere? Emotional? Excited?</p><p>Anonymous said:<br/>How did the kid!Steve and Nat shopping trip go? (Also, I'm a bit confused on the timeline now. Did that happen after dinner on the first night?)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tuesday

Another goddamn Tuesday.

Tuesday was quickly becoming his least favorite day to stalk Steve. Tuesday was the day that phantom sniper bullets would show up at crazy angles to take out whatever mooks were harassing Captain America. Black Widow, Falcon and Hawkeye would just glare around at rooftops because they had all agreed they were not going to tell Steve about the phantom sniper bullets because  _Goddamn it, Bucky, we know it’s you_.  _Just tell him you’re back, he’s worried sick_.

He actually found that, once, tied to an arrow. Hawkeye got it to his original position, within an inch of where he’d been when he’d taken the shot before he bugged out and called it a day. He’d come back because he’d dropped his can opener and the cats were not having any of him if he couldn’t give them food.

They weren’t his cats. They just lived in the same basement. They could get food without him, they just- they had an understanding, all right? Fine.

Tuesday was his least favorite day to stalk Steve because magic users usually showed up on Tuesdays, and they would magic off the serum, and it took Steve longer to regenerate from magical attacks than from normal shit like bullets, explosions, and crummy tech that wouldn’t even be good enough for Stark Industries’ trashcans. Steve didn’t need him for any of those things. Steve was fine, his new allies were fine. He could watch Steve through the scope on his rifle and never take a shot. It was soothing. It helped him relax. He was remembering how to relax. He was getting better at it.

So, naturally, this freak who could manipulate the flow of an individual’s time stream and reverse them to any point in their lives and freeze them at any given age for up to a week would show up on a Tuesday. It was a weirdly specific magical power and he hated magic because magic was stupid, it didn’t make sense and it shouldn’t be allowed.

Why the fuck was it always Tuesday? Wouldn’t Monday make more sense for sorcerers? Moon-day or whatever? No,  _Tuesday_  because  _fuck you_ , that’s why. Ugh.

Steve was on his back in a pile of debris that outlined the shape of Captain America, and he was tired of Tuesdays. His uniform was basically thirty sizes too big. He was  _maybe_  46 inches tall (116 centimeters, and yeah, his brain always calculated both so he could think in English and Russian and German all at the same time and it was a fuckin’ headache), weighed  _maybe_ 60 pounds (a little over 27 kilograms). He looked about eight, so he was probably old enough to recognize Bucky. Hopefully it would work, assuming his memories adjusted to scale. Assuming he could assume anything. He hated magic  _so much_.

He threw the kid over his shoulder and grabbed the shield. More than half of the uniform fell off, he left it all behind. Someone else would get it. He gave no fucks right now. Goddamn magic fights. Seriously? Shouldn’t some  _other_ Avenger with powers not based in  _science_  be handling this shit? Whatever. Superhero bullshit, he hated it. Steve was a super  _soldier_ , he should be reserved for  _soldier_  shit, wars and nation protecting and righteous fistfights, not dueling fucking wannabe Houdinis in tights. Christ.

He took him to an alley and put him down on a crumpled up cardboard box to assess the damage. Fuck, his goddamn  _shorts_  had fallen off with his  _pants_. Steve wasn’t going to be happy about that. He’d picked this alley for a reason, though. They’d fixed that clothing drive box since he’d broken into it the last time. He broke into it again. He threw the Iron Man shirt right back into the box, because fuck that guy. Spider-man, too, just no. Not Captain America, either, Steve only wore the stars and stripes when he didn’t mind getting recognized.

A plaid button down, a black t-shirt, rumpled but clean, and jeans with at least thirty goddamn pockets. A whole  _pack_  of clean underwear, the plastic not even broken.  _God Bless America._  Steve was still completely ragdolled as he dressed him, but it was no big deal. Didn’t weigh anything.

He glanced down at his own clothes. Smelled himself. Frowned. Looked for a change of shirt- only one thing in the goddamn box big enough to fit him, a _fucking_  Captain America shirt,  _and_  it was short sleeved, so hiding his metal arm until he could explain it? Not going to happen. He huffed as he stuffed all their discarded shit back in the box, rigged the Captain America uniform top into a sling to strap the shield to his back and hauled Steve over his shoulder again. He’d carry him to the place he was staying with Sam and Natasha. Steve couldn’t stay in the basement with the cats. He was allergic. He’d have to be- ugh,  _sociable_.

When he was aware enough to remember how to feel, Bucky was angry a lot.

* * *

 

He didn’t know where he was. He didn’t know where he was, who was carrying him, he didn’t recognize the city and even his clothes felt wrong, so naturally he started screaming. The person carrying him stopped immediately, diving into an alley and clamping a hand over his mouth.

The voice was ragged, unused to speaking, but it had a Brooklyn accent, that much was familiar.

"Stop. Don’t have an attack."

So the stranger knew about his asthma. Okay. Okay, not a total stranger, maybe. Steve squeezed his eyes shut and steeled himself, clenching his hands into fists.

"M’gonna uncover your mouth. Stay quiet."

Steve nodded, and the hand came off his mouth. He didn’t open his eyes, not yet, he concentrated on his breathing instead, getting it reined back in, under control.

"Atta boy, Stevie," the voice said, ruffling his hair when he got steady again.

Steve opened his eyes to scowl at him. “Ain’t been Stevie since third grade,” he said pointedly. “And just who the Hell are you, mister?”

The guy looked like a hobo. His hair was too long, he had it tied back in a bun, but it was wavy and trying to escape. He had at least two days’ worth of beard going. His eyes looked haunted, like the guys who had been in the Great War, guys old enough to be his dad.

"Won’t believe me," the guy said, then considered, and snorted, tilting his head to the side and leaning close. "Smell."

Steve ducked back, started to open his mouth and raised his hands to shove, but the guy rolled his eyes and grabbed Steve by the t-shirt, forcing his face into his neck. Steve smelled, mostly to get air, and then he stopped, sniffing again, pressing closer and laughing.

"What the Hell?" he demanded, shoving at the guy’s shoulder. "Okay, jerk, how the shit are you a grown up? Did I fall into some goddamn Rip Van Winkle bullshit?"

"Language," the guy said mildly. "Long story. Believe me, punk?"

"Yeah, yeah," Steve leaned back against the wall. "I’d know your stink anywhere. When was the last time you had a shower?"

"Thursday," he said, shrugging.

"What’s today?" Steve asked, folding his arms over his chest.

"Tuesday."

"Gross, Buck. That’s really gross."

Bucky smiled and some of the  _haunt_  went out of his eyes. “So’s your face.”

Steve grinned. “See, you’re definitely you.” He looked down at his clothes. “What the Hell are we wearing?”

"Donation box," Bucky explained, shrugging again, then stood, offering Steve his hand. "Going somewhere safe."

"I’m too old to hold your damn hand," Steve protested, glaring, and Bucky gave him a pointed look, shaking the hand at him. He took a minute. Looked at it. Flushed, sliding his fingers into the interlocking joints. "War?"

Bucky nodded, the metal fingers curling around Steve’s. “Thirteen?”

Steve wrinkled his nose, grinning brightly. “Eleven.”

Bucky nodded again, carefully squeezing his fingers. “Stay close.”

* * *

 

"How tall are you?" Steve asked. Bucky was picking the lock on the door and Steve was watching as though they’d done this a million times, not a hint of judgment on his face.

"Around six feet," Bucky murmured.

Steve could barely hold up the bag that was holding Bucky’s parted out sniper rifle, but he was giving it a solid try. The shield was still on Bucky’s back.

"How old are you?"

"Close to thirty."

"Why am I still eleven? What year is it? This is some of your Jules Verne, H. G. Wells shit, Buck."

"Magic. 2014. Fucking crazy." Bucky opened the door and motioned Steve inside, locking it behind them. "Showers, then food."

"Whose place is this?" Steve handed him back the rifle bag and Bucky dropped it on the couch.

"Friends of yours," Bucky shrugged. "Soldier, spy."

"How the Hell-" Steve shook his head. "Buck, I can’t say I’m fond of your newfound recalcitrance."

"Two dollar word," Bucky noted, raising an eyebrow and smirking faintly. "Strip. You first."

"I don’t even stink as bad as you," Steve complained, but peeled out of his shirt anyway, following Bucky to the bathroom. He sighed as he watched Bucky pull out towels and turn on the water, leaving the door open. "What’re we like, anyway? You were in a war, so you’re a soldier? What about me?"

"My CO," Bucky told him, managing a grin and a wink. "Damn good. The best."

Steve’s whole face lit up. “An  _officer_? Me? Buck, I can’t even run two blocks without wheezing. That’s crazy!”

Bucky ruffled his hair. “Pretty crazy,” he agreed quietly. “Still don’t believe it.”

Steve shucked out of his jeans and carefully stepped over the edge of the tub into the shower, exclaiming in surprise at the heat of the water. “Wow. Okay, this is the best thing ever. I’d take showers every day if they were all like this.”

"Me, too," Bucky agreed. "Soap up, come on."

He washed in silence, taking a seat on the toilet once he’d put on another fresh pair of underwear, watching Bucky shower with the curtain open. He pulled his legs up to his chest and hid half his face in his arms as he took in the scars.

"Hey, Buck?"

Bucky hummed.

"You got a girl?"

Bucky closed his eyes, shook his head.

"Oh, okay." Steve considered, closing his eyes and hiding his face for a while as he chewed it over. "Did you have one, though?"

"Lots," Bucky assured him. "Every girl on the block."

Steve laughed softly. “Of course. Tomcat.” He pulled the black t-shirt back over his skinny chest and tugged it down until it was mostly covering his underwear. “What about me? I ever get one?”

"One," Bucky told him. "Prettier than any of mine."

Steve blushed. “Yeah, right. What’s her name?”

"Peggy," Bucky rinsed his mouth out with water and spat. "Spitfire. Lost her, though."

"In the war?" Steve’s eyes were wide, his brow crumpled in lines. "Did she-?"

"No," Bucky said, picking up the shampoo, pouring it into his palm, starting to scrub his hair. " _We_  did. Both of us.”

Steve buried his face in his knees. “That’s  _shit_.”

"Could be worse," Bucky said.

"Who went first?" Steve demanded, looking up again.

Bucky knew what Steve would want to hear. He told him the truth instead. “Me.”

“ _Fuck_.” Steve curled up into a ball. “Goddamn it, Bucky. I’m sorry.”

"Wasn’t your fault," Bucky told him, knowing it wouldn’t do any good, smiling a little at the futility of it. "Chased right behind."

"Course I did," Steve muttered fiercely. "Ain’t going anywhere without me."

"Not if you can help it," Bucky agreed. He heard the door open, shut off the water. Steve handed him his pants.

"Steve?"  _Wilson_.

"Barnes?"  _Romanoff_.

Steve looked up at Bucky, searching his expression for what to do. Bucky shrugged, picking up a towel, and started to scrub the water out of his hair.

* * *

"Where’s his uniform? Where’s his shield? Where’d you get that rifle? Why didn’t you tell us you had him? Were you planning on telling us anything? Where did you take him? What did you tell him? Why didn’t you come right to us?"

The lecture went right over both of them. Bucky didn’t care, and Steve took his cues from Bucky and didn’t say a word. Wilson was furious, but it was almost all worry, and Romanoff was more of a quiet seether than a yeller. Bucky watched Steve get angrier and angrier and finally held up his left arm. Steve dropped himself under it and leaned heavily on Bucky’s side, scowling, his face deep red with anger, one of his fists getting caught in Bucky’s Captain America shirt.

Bucky let the metal arm go down and curl around him. Steve was so fucking  _little_.

"How old are you?" Natasha asked,  _finally_  talking to Steve. “Eight?”

Bucky kept his face a mask. _  
_

"I’m  _eleven_ ,” Steve said, almost flat but mostly defiant, his eyes narrowed into furious, uncooperative slits.

"Breathe," Bucky warned, low and forceful.

"I’m  _breathing_ ,” Steve snapped, and he was, but it was raspy and tight. _  
_

"Can’t get mad," Bucky told him. "Need new medicine."

"Shut  _up_ ,” Steve said, thumping a fist into his ribs, and then closed his eyes and pressed his face into Bucky’s chest, concentrating and trying to synchronize their breathing. “Just- I don’t like this.”

Bucky gave Sam and Natasha an even look and raised his eyebrow. Sam scrubbed a hand over his close-shaved hair, and Natasha folded her arms over her chest, sitting on the arm of the sofa.

"Did you two eat anything?" Sam asked, finally. Bucky shook his head no, so Sam headed into the kitchen.

"Thank you," he called after him, and poked Steve in the side.

"Thank you," Steve echoed, glaring down at the curled up fists in his lap.

* * *

"No," Steve said, folding his arms over his chest and tucking his head down.

"No what?" Sam asked, blinking. "Which part of it don’t you like?"

"Just no," Steve said, frowning tighter, squinting, clutching at himself. "Ain’t gonna eat."

Natasha sighed. “Steve, you have to eat.”

"Won’t," Steve said simply. "Not hungry."

"You gotta eat, Steve," Sam pressed. "Look, tell me what you don’t like, and we’ll fix it."

Steve huffed. He pulled his feet up to the edge of his chair and hugged his knees. “Just don’t wanna eat.”

Bucky sighed. He barely spoke, less than half a dozen words at a time. He came over and sat in the chair beside Steve’s, sliding the plate away from him and taking the fork. He started to eat.

Steve watched him. He didn’t uncurl, he didn’t smile, he just watched him, silently, his lips pressed together.

Bucky ate three quarters of the food, finishing everything spicy, taking care to pick out all the onions, the meat and the peppers. He passed it back when it was mostly green and orange, carrots, mushrooms and peas.

"Eat," he said.

Steve let something like a half smile pluck at his lips, taking the fork from Bucky’s hand and starting to eat.

Bucky glanced up at Sam, then over at Natasha, then down at his lap, watching his metal fingers curl and uncurl.

"Amount matters. Content, too. Pen?"

Steve finished the tiny portion and went to the sink, pouring himself a glass of water. He was so short he could barely reach the knobs on the faucet. He drained the whole glass without stopping, and then frowned, looking back over his shoulder.

"Bucky. I can’t reach."

Bucky sighed, putting the pen back on the list of safe foods he’d made for Sam and coming over with the plate, starting to wash the dishes.

Steve leaned against the small of his back, fisting both small hands in the sides of Bucky’s loose, gray T-shirt, the front of which was decorated with a faded replica of Steve’s shield.

"Steve?" Natasha kept her voice soft. "How do you know he’s Bucky? He’s a grown up. He can’t look the same."

"Smells like Bucky," Steve muttered, frowning at her without looking at her. "People don’t smell the same."

"Arm’s off," Bucky added blithely.

"You’d want a robot arm," Steve growled, pulling on his shirt. "If you lost yours. You’ve always been into that science fiction stuff. Comic books."

Bucky closed his eyes, rubbing the sponge over the plate, and grunted noncommittally.

"How do you know we’re safe?" she pressed.

"Bucky wouldn’t stay if you weren’t," Steve said flatly, burying his face in Bucky’s back again. "He don’t take anything off anybody."

"Why wouldn’t you talk before?" Sam asked.

"Bucky don’t talk, I don’t talk," Steve muttered into Bucky’s back. "Leastwise with grown folks. He’s the smart one."

Bucky grunted again, a hint of a smile at the corner of his mouth.

Sam folded his arms over his chest. “Bucky don’t eat, you don’t eat?”

Steve grunted that time, hiding his face completely.

"Good thing we’ve got Bucky here to help us take care of you, then," Sam said mildly, shooting Natasha a long-suffering look.

Bucky and Steve grunted in unison, and Steve gripped Bucky’s shirt tighter.

* * *

"You and I need to have a conversation."

Bucky looked up at Sam. He had known this was coming. He had actually counted on it. “Steve,” he said, low and firm, making sure he didn’t meet the blue eyes that immediately locked on him for directions. “Go with Romanoff.”

Steve was immediately suspicious, frowning up at Sam from where his head had been pillowed on Bucky’s left side, under his metal arm. “Why?”

"Clothes," Bucky said. "Food. Toothbrushes."

Natasha nodded, getting to her feet. “Come on, Rogers,” she said, digging the keys out of the pocket of her leather jacket. “Gotta get you some shoes, too, I guess. Some that’ll fit.”

Steve squinted down at his bare feet and frowned. “All right.” He fixed his stare on Sam. “Bucky’s going to be here when I get back, right?”

Sam sighed, shaking his head. “I’m not planning on throwing him out, if that’s what you mean.”

"Don’t  _leave_ ,” Steve ordered Bucky, who nodded but didn’t say anything in response.

"Colors do you like?" Natasha asked Steve as she held the door open for him.

"Only see red and blue," he said, shrugging as he ducked under her arm. He kept his eyes on the ground so he wouldn’t stub or scrape his bare toes. "Doesn’t much matter." His tone was more polite with Natasha than with Sam or Bucky. That much of his demeanor was already in place.

Natasha closed the door behind them without, seemingly, a response, and Bucky looked up at Sam.

* * *

 "So, um, Miss Romanoff," Steve peered up at her. She wasn’t trying to hold his hand, which he appreciated, she kept both hands tucked into the pockets of her leather jacket and walked slowly enough for him to be careful with his bare feet. "How do you know Bucky?"

"Nat," she corrected. "Natasha, if you’re going to insist, which, knowing you, you will. I don’t know Bucky. I know you."

"How?" Steve frowned skeptically. "How do I have friends that don’t know Bucky?"

Natasha frowned slowly, shaking her head. “He told you there was a war, right? And you were both in it?”

Steve nodded, and Natasha relaxed.

"You got separated during the war," she said carefully. "You didn’t come home together. Bucky is just now getting home, more or less."

"Before or after we both died?" Steve said, frowning.

"During," Natasha said, frowning again. "Anyway, we work together."

"You’re a soldier?" Steve was squinting at her.

"You’re a soldier," Natasha said primly. " _I_  am a  _spy_.”

* * *

"I sound like a comic book," Steve opined from the dressing room.

"You had comic books," Natasha confirmed. "They made Bucky your sidekick. You were not happy." _  
_

"I’d be  _his_  sidekick, if one of us had to be. Anyway, sidekicks are stupid,” Steve said. “Kids don’t belong in a war.”

"No, they don’t," Natasha agreed, smiling faintly. "Also, you’re just as bad about picking clothes when you’re six-two."

"Six-two?" Steve came out. He was frowning down at his shirt. "Stupid question."

"No, go ahead."

"I had comic books."

"Yeah."

"You work with me."

"Yeah."

"Do  _you_  have comic books?”

She blinked at him in surprise. “Uh- I’m not really a role model. You know. _Spy_.”

"It’s just kind of stupid that there aren’t any dames on the superhero stuff," he said, frowning. "If there are dames on superhero  _teams_. Besides, my mom’s all I’ve got, so-“

Natasha smiled. “No superheroes. I’ll pick something else.”

"Thanks. Just, get me some- I don’t know, plaid or something."

"No plaid, Steve."

"What’s wrong with plaid?" Steve asked, frowning.

"Oh my God. Even tiny, you’re like a grandpa."

* * *

"That guy is really popular."

"Mhm."

"Is he a real superhero or a comic book superhero?"

Natasha laughed. “Both, I guess.”

"His uniform kinda stands out, like,  _I_  can see it, and- Oh, Christ.”

Natasha grinned at him.

"Seriously?" Steve rolled his eyes. "That’s why Bucky was wearing the shirt, isn’t it?"

"Probably."

"That jerk," Steve shook his head. "Thanks for not making me get the pajamas, Natasha."

"You try really hard not to wear the stars and stripes when you’re off duty."

"It’s not terrible," he sighed. "I mean, the star is cool, I guess. I’d design a suit like that, if I were drawing a superhero."

"You did."

"I designed my own costume."

"Yup."

He sighed. “No wonder I don’t have a girl.”

 

* * *

 

"Okay, man," Sam said, his arms folding over his chest. "How much am I going to get out of you?"

"Let’s see," Bucky prompted.

"You’ve been following him around, especially on Avengers’ gigs," Sam ticked off on the end of his finger. "You know he’s been staying with me, you know magic users tend to get him on Tuesdays, and you were close enough to snatch him when he got hit."

Bucky nodded.

"He look eleven to you?" Sam asked. "Because he looks eight to me, and-"

"He’s eleven," Bucky said firmly. "Everything but scoliosis already."

Sam dug out his phone. “So- mm. Diabetic, arrhythmic heart, colorblind, anemic, stomach ulcers, partial deafness?  _Christ_.”

"Mean as a snake, too," Bucky said, smiling a little, faintly, fondly. "Books?"

"E-books might be a good idea," Sam mused. "Get him on my tablet, blow up the font real big-"

"Near’s iffy," Bucky noted. "Far, too.  _Middle_  distance-” he shrugged.

"Astigmatism," Sam noted from the entry on the Wikipedia. "Eagle vision at twenty feet, a mess any other place. No wonder he’s so stubborn."

Bucky’s flickering smile wandered across his face again.

"What was the deal with the bathroom?" Sam demanded, low and dangerous.

"Don’t," Bucky said, holding up his hand and giving Sam an icy look. "Tenement’s like army. Group showers."

"Where’d you get the clothes?"

"Donation box on ninth."

"You just broke into it? And then my house, and Steve didn’t say a word."

"1929 was rough," Bucky said, shrugging.

"The crash." Sam pressed his lips together. "He asked for his mom yet?"

"Knows what year it is."

"So he knows not to ask," Sam nodded back. "Tell him how you lost the arm?"

"War."

"What’s in the bag?"

"Gun."

"Shield?"

"Knows it’s his, can’t lift it."

"Well, it ain’t  _magic_.” Sam sighed. “The Hell are you thinking, Barnes?”

"You can take care of him," Bucky acknowledged, and then ran both hands over his messy, thick dark hair. "I can’t leave him, though."

"Did you tell him about the ice?" Sam asked.

"No," Bucky frowned, his nose wrinkling. "Not his  _or_  mine. Nightmares.”

Sam sighed again, shaking his head. “I’ve only got the guest bedroom and the pull out couch.”

"Put us on the sofa," Bucky suggested.

"You’re a grown-ass man," Sam frowned at him sternly. "You want me to leave you alone to share a bed with an eleven year old little boy you ain’t blood related to?"

"Same to you," Bucky retorted mildly. He added, after a beat, "I don’t sleep. Nightmares."

"He doesn’t know me, and he wouldn’t sleep with Natasha," Sam sighed. "Fuck."

"Just small," Bucky began, and then gave Sam a long, quiet look, before dropping his eyes to his lap and shrugging. "Yeah, you’re NOK. Little? Still me."

Sam startled slightly at the beginning of the statement, and then sat beside Bucky on the couch.

"All right," he said, low and solemn. "But I’m leaving my door open."

"Of course," Bucky said, frowning. "I would, too."

* * *

They lay beside each other on the fold out couch. Natasha was in the guest bedroom, Sam in the master, by himself. Bucky wasn’t sure why he was still there, except-

No, he knew why he was. He had his hands tucked behind his head, his ears on Steve’s slowly rising and falling chest, eyes up, on the shadows that fell across the ceiling.

"Buck?" Steve whispered. "You awake?"

"Mm."

"I got-" he began, and then went quiet again. He moved, got on his knees, and rested his weight on his hand on Bucky’s chest. "I got a dumb, a really, really dumb question, like, it’s so dumb, I shouldn’t- I shouldn’t even  _ask_ you, but it’s driving me crazy, so-“

Bucky shifted, looking at him, raising an eyebrow.

"So, um. You said you don’t have a girl," he reminded him, and Bucky nodded. "And since Peggy, right, I don’t either."

"Mm," Bucky confirmed, wondering what Steve’s funny little brain was doing.

"And Sam- Sam’s my  _friend_. And Nat’s my- we work together. And your arm- you’ve got a  _robot_  arm. This is- this is  _really_  the future, right?”

"Mm."

"So, um. So- a lot of stuff is different, right?"

Bucky ruffled Steve’s hair. “Don’t burn anything.”

"Are- I mean, you and me- I mean, we- We’re  _best_  friends, right? Like, forever, right?”

"Mm."

Steve searched his face in silence and Bucky bit his tongue, trying not to smile. He must have managed it, because Steve looked completely mortified and lost when he spoke again.

"So, um. I mean, you know, I’m not saying- I didn’t- I never  _thought_  about it, okay, it’s not really- I’m not  _like_  that, you know, but I mean, I know  _you_  aren’t either, like-“

"Spill," Bucky prompted.

"You’re not- I mean, it’s just- I was just-" Steve rubbed his forehead. "Are you- I mean, are we- Are you my fella, Buck? I’m not sayin-"

Bucky snorted. “Yeah. ‘Course.  _Punk_.”

"Oh, thank  _Christ_ ,” Steve groaned, falling down beside him. “How long did it take me to tell you?”

Bucky closed his eyes. “Forty-three.”

Steve tangled his fingers with Bucky’s. “I’m such a chicken shit.”

"Didn’t tell me," Bucky clarified. "Told  _you_.”

"I’m so stupid," Steve sighed. "So, so stupid."

"Always," Bucky agreed, kissing his temple. "Go t’sleep, Stevie."

* * *

"He’s gonna need an inhaler," Sam pointed out.

"A what?" Bucky and Steve spoke at the same time.

"Portable asthma medicine," Natasha clarified. "To keep you from struggling like that."

"I don’t need any medicine," Steve growled. "I’ve been fine, just-"

"Need to know how it works," Bucky grated, squeezing Steve’s hand.

"Sprays medicine into his throat while he breathes, so he can get it into his lungs," Sam said, shrugging.

Steve and Bucky exchanged skeptical looks.

"Internet," Bucky demanded when he looked at Sam again.

"Okay, okay," Sam sighed. "Christ, you two are even worse  _together_  than apart.”

* * *

 ”Where’s Steve?” Sam asked suddenly, and Bucky was on his feet almost before the sentence was out.

"Romanoff?" Bucky called into the open door.

"Relax," Natasha said, bringing them both coffee. "He’s dead to the world."

"How’d you manage that?" Sam asked. Steve had been managing to interrupt his staring contest-turned-territory negotiation with Bucky every quarter of an hour since he’d woken up at seven o’clock that morning.

Which had been sleeping in, compared to big Steve, but still.

"Gave him the tablet," she said.

"It was locked," Sam pointed out.

"Spy," Natasha reminded him, shrugging. "Also hacked your wifi password and gave him my credit card number. He’s bought about-" She checked her phone. "Sixty dollars worth of brushes, filters, and digital comic books."

"Yeah?" Bucky and Sam were both pleased.

"He’s teaching himself five different kinds of international sequential art," Natasha sipped her coffee.

"I didn’t know you liked kids," Sam said.

"I’m indifferent to kids," Natasha smirked. "I like being  _right_. I kept telling him he’d like digital art production if he’d  _try_. He’s a lot more open minded to it now.”

"Bucky!" Steve came thudding out the door, still in his pajamas, his hair a complete birds nest. "Look, I did like, five versions of Buck Rogers, I think I’m getting the hang of this thing!"

Bucky took the tablet carefully in his right hand, glancing over the pictures. “Different styles, huh?”

"Yeah! This thing is really neat, it lets you do different brushes with different pressures and everything. It’s not- it don’t have the same weight as paper, but it’s pretty cool anyway."

Sam reached hesitantly for the tablet. “Can I see?”

"Oh! Um, sure, if you want," Steve blinked at him, blushing faintly. "I mean, it’s just sketching, you know, trying to figure out a touch screen, nothing special."

"Buck Rogers, huh?"

"It seemed appropriate," Steve folded his arms over his chest. "Anyway, um, Natasha- I tried the, uh, the Te- Tezuka, guy? Let her see, Sam. What do you think?"

"That’s really good, Steve," Natasha’s eyebrows both went up as she handed Steve her coffee. He drank from the opposite side of her mug, but he seemed to understand she wanted him to share without her having said so. "That’s-  _excellent_ , actually.”

"It’s nothing," Steve blushed, leaning on Bucky’s metal arm and tangling his fingers in the back of Bucky’s shirt. "I’m just doodling, that’s all. Thanks."

* * *

 ”So. Um.” Steve was on Sam’s tablet again, running up Bucky didn’t want to know how much in purchases on Natasha’s credit card. He was still only working in red, blue, white and black, and he would occasionally squint at something, mumble a color, and hand it to him, and Bucky would fill in the yellows, greens and purples he was pretty sure Steve would want before handing it back. “What’s he like?”

"Who?" Natasha asked.

"Captain America," Steve said, frowning into the picture he was doing. It was another Buck Rogers, but this time in an armored space suit  _clearly_ based on Bucky’s arm, interlocking plates of metal rippling across every muscle and outlining every joint. It wasn’t professional quality, of course, but it was very good for an eleven year old. “Like, as a superhero. What kind of stuff does he do?”

Sam and Natasha both looked at Bucky, but Bucky had no intention of answering any questions that were about Steve after the serum, and the flat look he gave them said as much.

"Strong, of course," Sam said. "Olympic level athletic performance across the board. Brave, obviously. Fast. Runs me into the ground every morning."

"Tactical," Natasha said. "Very aware of the field and of his allies, everybody’s strengths and weaknesses, talents and preferences. Very capable leader."

"Sarcastic," Sam was starting to grin. "Always has a one-liner, something brave or fierce, never shows fear."

"What’s the shield about?" Steve frowned. "I don’t really get it. It doesn’t seem like it’d be- I don’t know. Effective."

"Ricochet weapon," Natasha said. "Like pinball, but-"

"Pinball?" Steve tilted his head to the side. "What’s pinball?"

Sam fished out his phone. “It’s like- you know how billiards work, right? Bouncing off the sides of things, trying to get things to go in the pockets? It’s like that. You throw it, like a Frisbee-“

"Frisbee?"

"Frisbees didn’t get popular until the fifties," Natasha reminded him.

"Damn, this is hard. Okay," Sam laughed. "You hold the shield sideways and throw it, edge out, trying to bounce it off walls and things to hit people with it, before it comes back to you, like a boomerang. You hold it in front of you to block bullets. You brace yourself on it and use yourself as a battering ram. It’s made out of this crazy rare metal-"

"-Vibranium-" Natasha interrupted.

"And it absorbs vibrations and works with some  _really_ different physics than most other things. Nobody else can even use it, really, it’s too unique.”

"Except me," Bucky said, very quietly. "I did. Twice."

Natasha and Sam stared, but Steve blinked at him, his lips curving in a slow, wondering smile. “Really?”

"Yeah," Bucky flicked at his hair. "Just twice."  _Once for you, once against you_ , he didn’t add.  _The first time killed me_. “Not my style.”

"What kind of weapons does everybody else use?" Steve asked, looking around at them.

"Guns," Sam shrugged. "Handguns, mostly, but I can use whatever I can get my hands on. I was Air Force."

"Guns," Natasha agreed, smiling dangerously. "Garrote wire, electric shock chargers, poison, knock out gas, eye irritants. I’m usually armed to the teeth."

"Sniper rifles," Bucky said, quiet, looking at his hands, lifting the left and flexing it at Steve, sending the plates along it into a rippling re-calibration. "This."

"And  _literally_  everything else,” Natasha said, seeming disinclined to allow Bucky to be modest. “He’s a one man army.”

Bucky smiled humorlessly.

Steve peered at Bucky’s arm. “Do that again. The rippling thing. I want to see how the panels work for this picture.”

Bucky did it, slower, his fingers moving as well.

"That’s so crazy," Steve sighed, shaking his head. "It’s pretty? But it’s pretty like a spiderweb’s pretty."

Bucky’s neck went loose, his lips faintly curved in a smile when he let it hang down. “You were the first,” he said, soft and almost mournful.

"The first what?" Steve asked, tilting his head to the side.

"The first superhero," Sam elaborated. "The first public one, anyway. Everybody knows your name, your story. You’re required reading in American history. There’s an exhibit at the Smithsonian."

Steve sat back in his chair, his face going pink. “No way.”

Natasha nodded. “Everyone looks up to you. Half the spies we work with had your face on their pajamas and Bucky’s uniform on their teddy bears.”

Steve rubbed his face with both hands. “I’d  _hate_  that,” he mumbled, his brow furrowing into a sea of wrinkles. “I don’t like attention.”

"You do," Bucky said, reaching over and ruffling his hair. "You hate it."

"Got you some good friends, though," Sam said, giving him a sheepish grin.

"Oh, absolutely," Natasha agreed. "And dates, if you’d ever let me set you up."

Bucky and Sam stared at her. Natasha just smirked.

"Tell me about the other guys," Steve sighed, shaking his head. "The ones on the t-shirts. What’s up with the robot?"

* * *

"I lied."

 "No, you didn’t," Steve protested, reaching for Bucky’s arm and frowning when Bucky pushed at his hands. "Everything you said was-"

"Not about everything," Bucky interrupted, taking Steve’s hand and brushing the knuckles to his lips.

"Bucky!" Steve yelped, flushing, yanking at his hand to try and get it back.

"Not me," Bucky admitted, letting go. "I never said."

"Ass!" Steve shoved him, then crossed his arms and curled in on himself, his face gone scarlet from hair to well under his shirt. "Why’d you let me say it? Oh my God, Bucky, I don’t want your damn  _pity_ , you know better, I-“

"No," Bucky said, giving him a sweet, sad smile. "I always knew, I just-"

"You just let me feel like an idiot, that’s all!" Steve yelled, punching at Bucky’s stomach with both determined little fists. "Did you even- How did you ever-"

Bucky sighed. “Stevie-“

"Don’t fuckin’  _Stevie_ me, you shit!" Steve snarled, his eyes threatening tears. "I’m not even sure I even like-"

"No, you do," Bucky smiled, crouching to meet his eyes. "Just, you didn’t with me. We never." It shook him hard to talk so much, and his voice strained with it. "We were both chickenshit, Stevie, me just as much as you. When we were little like this, I already knew. I don’t remember a time when I wasn’t gone on you, not a minute, not on my best remembering day."

Steve went still, though the blushing started slowly fading as he stared at Bucky with wide, wondering blue eyes, stock still.

 "I was shit-myself scared," Bucky confessed, running his fingers through his hair. "Everything from Father Donovan to jail, and I could lie and say I was scared for you, but shit no, I was scared for me. I didn’t want it. I chased every girl in Brooklyn, not one of them made me light up like you did."

 Steve was crying, grinning brokenly and sobbing, the only sounds that came out of him deep, sucking sniffles.

 "I promised myself I’d  tell you the night I shipped out, and what did you do?" Bucky rolled his eyes and shoved Steve’s head. "Let you outta my sight for five minutes and you signed up to be a superhero. By the time I got you back, I was halfway to  _this_ , and you already had Peggy. I’m a shit, a real shit, but I wasn’t bad enough to mess that up for you.”

 "Bucky," Steve whined, stomping his foot.

 "I am now," Bucky said, folding his arms tight across his chest. "You ain’t with me, Stevie. You never were. You could always do better. You’re doing better."

 "What the fuck are you talking about?" Steve demanded.

 “ _Sam_ ,” Bucky said firmly. “Hard to beat a fella who can fly.”

 "But Bucky-" Steve tried again, and Bucky shook his head, pushing him gently back.

 "You’re gonna wake up big tomorrow, and me and big Stevie, we ain’t settled, not right now. I know you’re still you, and you’re gonna say it ain’t nothing, that you and me, we’re together to the end of the line, ‘cause that’s you, and you’re the stupidest guy I ever knew. I ain’t ready for that, so I’m gonna run while your legs are still too short to catch up. I just gotta do one little thing, before I go."

 Steve glared at him, dragging the back of his hand across his eyes.

 "I was twelve," Bucky said, wrinkling his nose. "Some girl. Should’ve been you, though. By the time somebody else got around to it, you were twenty-four, and that was my fault and nobody else’s. Gonna fix that."

 He kissed him. It was soft, dry and completely chaste, but Steve’s ugly-crying, blotchy red face softened into sweet, startled, even pink from top to bottom.

 When Bucky pushed himself back up to his feet, Steve’s shaking fingers brushed against his own mouth as he stared at him, through him.

 Bucky laughed. “I’m a jerk,” he said, ruffling Steve’s hair as he got to his feet. “A complete shitheel. Should’ve done it the first time. Later, Stevie.”

 Steve was still standing in the exact same place, in the exact same position when Sam came and scooped him up under an umbrella.

 "You’re soaking wet," Sam complained. "You’re gonna get a cold."

 "That asshole," Steve mumbled, leaning his head on Sam’s shoulder. "That ruthless, shameless asshole."

 "What happened?" Sam asked.

 "He gave me a do-over," Steve sighed.

 "On?"

 "My first kiss."

 Steve wrinkled his nose. “Said you were my fella, too.”

 "Yeah, well," Sam shook his head. "Didn’t think you’d believe me if I said it."

 "Nah, you’re all right," Steve sighed. "I can kinda see it. You’re real nice."

 "Thanks," Sam said wryly, patting Steve’s back.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Next Tuesday](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5036056) by [zetsubonna](https://archiveofourown.org/users/zetsubonna/pseuds/zetsubonna)




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